


Echo

by doctor__idiot



Series: Tumblr Prompts [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom Dean, M/M, Soulless Sam, Top Sam, Wincest Writing Challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-30
Updated: 2017-05-30
Packaged: 2018-11-06 22:37:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 678
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11045781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor__idiot/pseuds/doctor__idiot
Summary: It’s a monumentally stupid idea, Dean’s sure of it. If-whenSam gets his soul back, he’s going to be pissed. It’s a price Dean’s willing to pay for these moments of peace.





	Echo

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the prompt "Soulless!Sam".

Sam’s got Dean’s wrists pressed together in one hand, pinned to the sheets over Dean’s head, and Dean knows he shouldn’t be enjoying this.

He’s too weak to say no, always has been, and his body keeps betraying him. Sam’s thrusts are sharp snaps of his hips, almost brutal, and Dean’s meeting ever single one with fervor. Sam’s hand on his waist, fingernails biting into his flesh, wouldn’t be enough to hold him there but Dean isn’t going anywhere. Can’t.

He’s hard, harder than he’s ever been or maybe that’s just what it feels like, and it’s shameless, the way he keeps writhing against the bigger body on top of him, the body of his little brother who’s missing a very crucial part of himself and Dean cares, he does, but right now he doesn’t.

It’s the eyes. He can’t look at them, not even now. _Especially_ not now. He knows every inch of Sam, has catalogued all his facial expression, the way he shifts his stance and his weight, hunches his shoulders to appear smaller, kinder.

This Sam, this half-version of him doesn’t care much about being kind. Doesn’t hunch, doesn’t try to appear smaller, never shifts nervously, doesn’t use his hands too much when he speaks. Doesn’t hesitate. His posture is different, the way his face is too blank, no micro-expressions.

But mostly, it’s the eyes. They’re too empty, too cold. Dean knows this Sam isn’t being cold on purpose, isn’t unnecessarily cruel because he wants to be. He just … is. Dean shouldn’t be surprised. If, according to that old saying, someone’s eyes are the windows to their soul, well then these windows are bolted shut because there’s nothing.

Dean’s known, he thinks, even before Cas confirmed it for them. He knew without really knowing.

And it gets too much sometimes. For the both of them but usually for Dean first. He’s used to being able to play off Sam and now he can’t even trust him to have his back during jobs. How are they supposed to go from there?

It’s a monumentally stupid idea, Dean’s sure of it. If–– _when_ Sam gets his soul back, he’s going to be pissed. It’s a price Dean’s willing to pay for these moments of peace.

Sam’s hands on him are the same, tan skin and rough callouses, long fingers spanning Dean’s thighs, and his body feels the same, heavy and glorious on top of him, pressing him into the mattress, sweat and other bodily fluids sticky between them. Just … feeling. It’s the only way Dean can shut his brain off, can shut that voice up that keeps whispering _NotSamNotSamNotSammy_ somewhere in one of the darker corners of his brain.

It isn’t easy, not thinking, but Sam makes it work. He flips Dean over, muscular forearm against the expanse of his back, and Dean shouts into the pillow, doesn’t censor himself because there’s no point. It’s easier like this. He’s sweat-soaked and shaking but never stops pushing back into Sam’s thrusts, pressure along his sensitive prostrate with every stroke of that giant cock, and he can’t stop squirming, overwhelmed by the pleasure-pain of it. He wants it that way.

Sam says things like ‘So good’ and ‘Mine’ and, occasionally, ‘Slut’ and his voice almost sounds the same, too, with an edge to it, and it almost makes Dean cry. The next moan hitches on a sob and Sam shushes him. It sounds so much like the ‘old’ Sam, the real Sam, that Dean shivers despite the heat of Sam’s broad body against his own.

After, he lies on his side on top of the sheets. Can’t be bothered to shower or get dressed. He draws up one knee for some decency despite the fact that it’s only Sam around, maybe _because_ it’s Sam. Sam, who’s already dressed again, jeans and T-shirt, sitting at the too-small desk, posture too unnaturally rigid. The kind he’s adopted after they found out about his lack of soul and now he doesn’t have to pretend anymore.

Sometimes Dean wishes he’d start pretending again.


End file.
